First gay experience stories

Fred's Story - This story of a high school student's first experience was related to me as true and actual. series James' Story - James tells the short story of his first gay sexual encounter at fourteen, with his fifteen year old cousin. series. In my Catskill Mountains summer camp, just before my thirteenth birthday, Robert, who was twelve, looked over all the boys; then he hit on me.

We spent most of the summer hiding in a secret treehouse, having sex above the forest. On November 9, By Redheaded Mo. In Gay Life. I was 17 and a senior in high school. I had been texting an old friend back and forth for a couple months. The conversation was usually nothing out of the ordinary and then would unexpectedly take a sexual turn.

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I honestly didn’t trust him very much. You see, I use the word “friend” lightly. I remember my first time so well because it was when I realized I am not alone. Growing up gay is such an insular, isolating experience that it is easy to imagine you are alone and different in a bad way. Growing up I noticed that I had an attraction for men and women. I accepted the fact that I am bisexual at a very early age.

NOW I am a 17 year old guy and have not yet had my first gay experience. I have been with maanny women though. Dad died when I was six. The rabbi who lived in the apartment below took over for him. My brother was four. We would secretly meet in the woods, hug each other and cry. I learned to hate all religion and still do. Mom was a dark-haired, curvaceous looker, juicy, and in her prime.

She liked sex but decided that all men had to pay for it. The butcher brought steaks; the florist, flowers; the bagel man left fresh hot steaming bagels by our door every morning for months.

Leon, the ice cream man left ice cream. And not to forget Abe, the jeweler, who brought, well, jewels. They all tried to get inside. Some did. When Mom met the man who brought it all, she married him. We lived in Borough Park, in Brooklyn. Until I ran away, I thought everyone in the world was either Jewish or Italian. I was intimidated by all the dark, Brooklyn-rough Italian boys in my class. Busing started, a few black kids filtered into school, and I made a new friend, Eric, who took me home to meet his mom in Bedford Stuyvesant, thought to be a dangerous black ghetto.

I was the only white person there. Steven was in my history class. Handsome and fair-skinned, he was a Neapolitan boy with curly blond hair. I sensed something different about him, so I asked him if he would like to come over to do homework together. Yes, he had—his junk was twice the size of mine. Every Friday afternoon, after class, Steven brought over dark, tough-guy Brooklyn-Italian, thirteen-year-old boys, to fellate.

They came sometimes two or three times. Steven sometimes came over alone. He sexually teased and tormented me. I was under his thumb, scared, ashamed, and aroused. In , I turned thirteen. I was a wild child, filled with a bursting curiosity about the world out there I wanted to explore. Craving adventure like the feral, ferocious horn dog I would soon become, I was on fire for something more in my life.

In my Catskill Mountains summer camp, just before my thirteenth birthday, Robert, who was twelve, looked over all the boys; then he hit on me. We spent most of the summer hiding in a secret treehouse, having sex above the forest.